THE TOMBS
Have you
ever encountered a place that strikes you as so bizarre that it draws you in,
demands your attention, and will not release you? A few days ago, quite by
accident, I dis- covered such a place. Not only was it bizarre, but at the same
time it was surreal, shadowy, macabre, even ghoulish and malevolent. In
addition to being all these things, it was simultaneously so ridiculous as to
be almost laughable — if it were not for its tragic implications.
Now,
before I tell you more about this strange place, I must first explain the
circumstances of my encounter, which came late at night: a time perhaps
befitting such a chance meeting. I had retired early, 9 p.m., having been awake
and mostly working since 4 a.m. that morning. By way of explanation, when I am
in the States, I operate on a different time schedule than most Americans. I am
up early, 3:30 or 4 a.m. daily, partially so that I can be in touch with Japan
in a timely fashion. When I get up, it is typically 7:30 or 8 p.m. there, and
when I retire, it is usually noon or 1 p.m. in Japan: perfect for whatever personal,
social, or business contacts I might need to make that day. The other reason is
that the cats have unilaterally, but acting upon a consensus among themselves, have
decided that 3:30 a.m. or 4 o’clock is the perfect time for an early breakfast.
Thus, even if I wanted to sleep in, chances are that with the proper
application of purring, patting, prodding, pouncing, and nipping at everything
from my ears to my nose to my toes, I will get up and feed them.
On
this particular evening, I had retired as usual at nine o’clock and had quickly
fallen asleep. For reasons which remain unclear to me, at thirty minutes past
eleven, Saito, our male cat, decided that he wanted a hug, which entails lying
on my chest (he’s a very big, muscular, lithe cat and thus heavy), putting his
arms around my neck and then nuzzling the side of my neck accompanied by
ecstatic purring. As the level of ecstasy increases, he begins to knead at my
neck and chest with his paws, what we call “making biscuits.” If it is close to
the end of the month, and approaching the always traumatic (for me as well as
for him) claw trimming time, the “making biscuits” hurts — sometimes a lot.
Normally I stroke his head and rub his ears, all the while in a state of
semi-sleep. Eventually both of us routinely drift off into a comfortable sleep;
however, that night, jabbed to a fully awake state by his claws, I got out of
my futon and staggered to the kitchen, closely followed by both Saito and the
senior kitty, Max-chan: the matriarch of the family. I turned on the lights and
squinted at the clock — eleven-forty. With the cats now circling around my
legs, tails erect, like a pair of hungry sharks circling their prey before
striking, I realized that a snack was indeed expected from the “opener of cans”;
and knowing that resistance was indeed futile, I opened a can of salmon paté and
dished out a treat.
No
longer sleepy enough to return to bed, and not quite awake, I poured myself a
glass of juice and went to the living room where I turned on the television. I
surfed through the channels only to find that there was nothing on but
religious programs from the Evangelical Christian fringe, infomercials, and
general crap. I switched to my usual refuge in such cases, PBS, the Public
Broadcasting System, otherwise commonly referred to as the educational station,
which features many well-done documentaries on science, nature, art, and dramas
(mostly well-done dramas from the BBC). There in front of me, were workmen
laying bricks, doing plastering, setting ironwork, and finishing such things as
the surface of walls and domes. I had the immediate impression that they were
in some Latin American country, based on the fact that the workers were
speaking Spanish, of the type spoken in Mexico not in Spain, and that they were
working on some block of perhaps townhouses or condominiums. A view from a
distance tended to confirm that thought.
There was a large block, an acre or
two, of what looked for all the world to be townhouses or condominiums, in some
sort of Spanish mission revival architecture. Now, blocks of townhouses or condos
have for a long time been of interest to me, going back to my days in the
university when I designed a townhouse, live-work, community for an
environmental planning class, wherein people lived where they worked or at
least nearby, a concept partially based on the old Japanese practice of shop
owners, artisans, and merchants living above their shops and studios.
Fascinated I continued to watch; then suddenly, there was a scene showing what
looked like long, narrow, cement vaults in the ground, as part of the
construction project. “What are these?” I asked myself. They did not quite make
sense in considering a block of townhouses. At that point, the camera pulled
back a bit, and there were candles burning on top of one of the vaults, which
had been covered by a concrete lid, and there was a cross, and flowers, and a
photograph of someone.
“That’s
strange,” I thought. “But wait! It’s a grave! A grave in the midst of a
construction project? And a new one at that?” The idea seemed not only weird but
also absurd. Then it began to dawn on me. This was not a series of townhouses,
of condominiums, of live-work spaces — it was a cemetery! These were the tombs
of Jardines del Humaya, and we (the cameraperson and I) were in the Mexican
state of Sinaloa, in Culiacán the center of “drug cartel territory.” My mind
flashed to the pyramids of Egypt, to burial sites of the Inca and the Maya, to
modern cemeteries in the States, all built to symbolize for the living, the
supposed ascent of powerful rulers into heaven. Nevertheless, here, it was simply
eerie, for in the case of this cemetery, most of its residents ruled kingdoms
of illegal drugs and extreme violence, which flies in the face of both logic
and every religion I can think of, whether it is Catholicism, Christianity in
general, Judaism, Islam, or Buddhism. I was stunned, and at the same time, I
suddenly felt a strong compulsion to learn more.
The
cemetery is actually located on the outskirts of Culiacán, and is the site of
macabre yet grandiose, ostentatious tombs, mausoleums actually, many of which
closely resemble one-bedroom apartments with elevated domes; thus my confusion
with some sort of mission-style revival architecture. The land there is sold in
blocks of 3.6 by 7.4 feet, the size of the standard Mexican coffin; and as it
turned out, the size of one of the small concrete vaults I had seen a few
minutes before. A popular size of lot commonly purchased is three of such
blocks, which sells for about thirty thousand pesos (about $2,500.00), although
there are quite a few larger “properties,” much larger lots, which even include
recreational areas where children can play during family visits. Those who buy
these larger lots and commission these grandiose structures are willing to
spend whatever it takes to ensure that their “honored dead” (some are politicians
and businessmen, but mostly they are Sinaloa’s most infamous traffickers of
narcotics — “narcos”) spend their afterlife in a place that reflects their own
unsustainable lifestyles — the very same lifestyles that ended their lives,
usually violently. Even if this means that the tomb will have central air
conditioning and a small kitchen, then so be it.
What has
happened here is that rather than burying such “honored dead” in some urban
cemetery, people were bring the urban environment, the one which nurtures the
drugs and the violence, out into a rural cemetery. Unsophisticated people have,
in their attempt to show everyone that they are somehow actually quite sophisticated
by building these mausoleums, have tended to copy the architecture they have
seen in local buildings in the town. The phenomenon, however, seems to exist
only at Jardines del Humaya, defying what I think most people would consider as
good taste, and yes, sophistication. What began early on as a trend towards
minimalism in the construction and marking of graves, rapidly grew to the pretentious
use of marble and acrylic domes, and the spending of exorbitant amounts of
money on sculptures and lighting. The most expensive tombs cost in the
neighborhood of half a million dollars.
The most
expensive, and thus the most elaborate memorials are located in an area deep in
the central part of the burial grounds, which viewed from the outside, gives
one the impression of a modern suburb inspired by chapel architecture — an
impression that certainly fooled me — the very image of a community; on the
other hand, a quite eccentric, weird, macabre community. It is not unusual to
find a luxury SUV (the preferred vehicle of the drug cartels) parked in front
of one of the mausoleums or driving along one of the narrow streets that divide
the structures. It makes one wonder at the various and no doubt gruesome ways
in which these people lost their lives, and what prompts people to come and gape
at their legacies.
You
might find that such excess in the burying one’s dead, as in the case of a
two-story building covered in plants and decorative flowers, which are
frequently changed and arranged around the mausoleums both strange and inappropriate.
Yet, the celebration of life and death in overabundance is a cultural norm,
particularly in Mexico, which has a social and religious history of
commemorating the dead in such a fashion. Parties with live music that may last
for days are not infrequent, particularly on birthdays, Catholic holidays, and
the Day of the Dead, not unlike the Bon Matsuri in Japan. At Jardines del
Humaya, such festivities are so frequent and abundant the local event planners
are making a small fortune, decorating tombs and coordinating landscaping, altars,
lighting, and custom themes, which frequently run about 35,000 pesos or
approximately $3,000. For example: if the deceased was a gambler, his party (or
parties, for they often become an annual event) might be themed along the lines
of a casino and include a roulette wheel and a craps table. If the deceased
enjoyed a certain dish, his family and friends might serve a plate for him at
the altar in his mausoleum and replace it whenever it becomes stale. However,
one has to ask, even with all the ostentation and amenities, will the “departed”
ever be able to rest in peace? Based on theology, one who can approach logic,
and is emotionally detached from the circumstances, is likely to say no.
I have
seen this same near-beatification of gang members a hundred times or more
locally as a member of various anti-gang task forces. I can take you to any
number of places in California’s Central Valley, in Stockton, in Sacramento, in
San Jose, and in San Francisco were candles are currently burning at small
thought opulent shrines to dead drug dealers and “gang bangers,” where the
moral consequences of dealing and drive-by shootings seem to have no moral or
religious consequence. But I digress.
Even
within Jardines del Humaya, while things may seem quiet and respectful in the
community of the dead, danger still lurks daily. Hit men have been known to
arrive at a burial service intent on seeking retribution on the family of the
deceased. In once recent incident, a group of hit men arrived and abducted
eight people, none of whom has ever been found. In another incident from 2010,
a beheaded body was found near the tomb of one of the most reprehensible drug
lords in recent memory. At the same time, the victim’s head had been placed, a
decorative flower tucked behind one of his ears, at the opposite end of the
cemetery, near the tomb of another key drug figure.
Jardines
del Humaya is peaceful; yet at the same time filled with conflict. People who
lived reprehensible lives, who dealt in drugs and death, are remembered with lavishness
in some strange belief that they have passed on to Heaven’s gate. It boggles
the mind, this surreal, shadowy, macabre, and pathetically laughable community
of death and violence, which I cannot easily wipe from my mind.
Tokugawa H.
Visit Jardines del Humaya for yourself:
Watch the entire film on Jardines del Humaya that I watched at POV, as shown on PBS
